Jeeves and the Loony Doctor
by Pjazz
Summary: Bobbie Wickham, a childrens party and a loony doctor conspire to land Bertie Wooster deep in the soup.


**Jeeves and the Loony Doctor**

**A contemporary Jeeves & Wooster story**

**by Pjazz**

**2006**

**PREFACE**

**Bertie Wooster in the 21st Century: Bertie is now a 'Name' in the City (don't ask), which precludes him from actually having to work for a living (perish the thought). He lives in a spacious flat in a fashionable part of central London (Jeeves dismissed Canary Wharf as too vulgar). The Hispano-Suiza is gone replaced by a spanking new Bentley Continental coupe. Also gone are the spats, bowler hat, cravat and monocle. Bertie wears classically cut suits by Oswald Boateng, Paul Smith shirts, Japanese silk ties and Lobb shoes. Otherwise he's the same old Bertie.**

**Get the gist? Good. Hope you enjoy the story.**

I don't know if you're familiar with the tune? It goes something like - 'tumty tumty tumty tum - the Man who broke the Bank of Monte Car-lo!' Dashed catchy. I had been humming it frequently these past days. Jeeves and I had just returned from Monte Carlo, and if I hadn't quite broken the Bank, I had certainly trousered a few thousand from the casino. Indeed, so bucked was I from success at the gaming tables, I allowed Jeeves an extra weeks holiday to go fly fishing in the Lake District.

Not that I wandered lonely as the a cloud that floats on high o'er vales and hills, as Wordsworth put it, without him. No, Bertram spent most of his time at the Drones Club, where I regaled all and sundry with tales of my gambling exploits until Catsmeat Potter-Pirbright told me to put a sock in it.

On the second morning of Jeeves' absence I woke with a sore head. At the Drones, when word leaks that that a fellow is flush with moolah, copious toasts are drunk to his health. I had imbibed one to many champagne cocktails to make waking a pleasant prospect. I was fixing myself an alka-seltzer on the rocks whne there came a knock at the door. I ignored it. There came a second knock, louder this time. I paid it no mind. Finally, it sounded as if a herd of angry Buffullo were demanding entry. I realised with a start that with Jeeves away the Master of the House would have to answer his own bally door.

Outside was a frowning Bobbie Wickham.

"It's about time," she said without preamble. "We've been waiting ages. Where were you, Bertie? Sleeping till noon, no doubt."

"The Wooster's do not sleep till noon," I informed her coolly. "We are up with the larks."

"Well, you're up now. Listen, Bertie, I need a small favour."

I stiffened. Favours and Bobbie Wickham are like nitro with glycerine. An explosive combination. I had lost count of the number of times doing a favour for Bobbie Wickham had landed Bertram neck-deep in the soup without a paddle.

"Now, Bobbie, I---"

It's a simple matter. Even you, Bertie, couldn't bungle it."

"Quite. But---"

"This is my nephew, Oswald."

Bobbie indicated a short cove at her side. I hadn't noticed him earler, partially hidden as he was by Bobbie's skirts.

"Oswald, this is Bertie Wooster. Bertie, meet Oswald. He's 8 years old."

Well, the Wooster's are nothing if not convivial.

"What ho, Oswald! How's tricks?"

Oswald grunted. Whether it was a positive grunt or a negative grunt it was impossible to decipher. Einstein might've cracked it, but it was too cryptic for Bertram.

"He's just shy," Bobbie explained, ruffling the youngster's topknot. "Bertie, I want you to keep an eye on Oswald for a few hours."

"What? Now see here, young Bobbie---"

"He'll be no trouble. He's as good as gold. Aren't you, lambikins?"

But Lambikins was staying stum. Doubtless mortified at being addressed thus in front of strangers.

"Absolutely not, Bobbie. I can't---"

"Oh pooh. Of course you can, Bertie. Don't be so difficult. I'd look after him myself only I just got a call from Gerty Finch-Finchely, one of dearest friends. Gerty's having a bad hair day, poor thing, and needs me at her side to whisper encouraging words. Though frankly she looks like she's got a haystack perched on her head."

"Listen, Bobbie, I---"

"Oswald's grandfather will be by later to pick him up."

Bobbie's mobile rang. She gave it a glance.

"That's Gerty now. Gosh, I bet she looks a fright. Must dash."

"No, really, ----"

"Cherrio, Oswald. Toodle-pip, Bertie."

And with that Bobbie traipsed daintily down the steps and out of the building. But for nephew Oswald I would have let rip a few choice expletives on the Perfidy of Woman. Instead I seethed in silence. My plan to take a constitutional in the park, lunch at Fortnum's and repair to the Drones for an evening's revelry was well and truly scuppered. I looked down at this Oswald excreasence.

"Oh well, you'd better come in," I said. But without any real fizz. Not with any vim or vigour.

We fetched up in the Drawing Room. This Oswald was a rum looking chap. Round face with a shock of unruly black hair. He seemed to have dressed in a hurry because his trousers were practically at half-mast and his running pumps had untied laces. How he hadn't come a purler walking up the steps I had no idea. He had on a t-shirt with the picture of what appeared to be a bath sponge with human features. I presumed this was a cartoon character for I couldn't imagine anyone actually looking like that would have the brass neck to appear in polite society. There was an uncomfortable silence which seemed to stretch for decades.

"Nice weather we're having," I pointed out. "For the time of year. Sunshine and what not. Very clement."

The subject of metereology exhausted we lapsed into silence again.

"Would you care for a snifter? I have brandy, gin, scotch...?"

"Lemonade."

"Rightio. Lemonade."

I explored the contents of the drinks cabinet. I realised I had spoken too soon. No lemonade. However, the Wooster's are nothing if not resourceful. I mixed some bitters and a couple of lime wedges in a glass and sloshed it about. Oswald took a cautious sip, and made a face as if I had served him poison.

"This lemonade's rubbish."

"How about a nice g and t?"

Oswald ignored me and looked around the flat, as if seeing the Wooster des-res for the first time.

"This place is rubbish," he opined. Then he gave Bertram the once-over, looking me up and down before announcing his verdict.

"You're rubbish."

Well, I mean to say, what!

A somewhat chilly silence ensued. I decided on a more intellectual approach.

"Do you like to read, Oswald? I have some magazines here," I said, indicating a pile of magazines on a side table. "There's a spiffing article in _Golf Digest _on how to improve your backswing. Apparently the trick is to keep your wrists---"

"Golf's rubbish," Oswald interrupted, then perused the magazines in an aloof and desultry manner. They were mostly '_Country Life'_ and old sporting periodicals, nothing too racy fortunately. Finally, Oswald delivered his literary critique.

"Magazine's are rubbish."

I must confess I was finding this constant 'rubbish' motif somewhat wearisome. The boy's nihilsim was giving Bertram the pip. Then he surprised me by saying:

"I say, that's a jolly nice sofa."

Oswald pointed at the old burgundy chesterfield. Jeeves uses some sort of oil to polish the leather and I admit it did gleam with impressive lustre.

"Can I bounce on it?"

I saw no reason why not and nodded the bean.

"Coo, thanks!"

Oswald bounced with some considerable gusto.

"D'you want to have a go?"

For a moment I was sorely tempted. There was a time when Bertram would've been up there bouncing with the best of them. But age had wearied me and the years condemn, as the saying goes.

"I'll give it a miss, thanks."

I repaired to the dining room and lit a gasper. I had finished one and just started another when I became aware Oswald was once again amongst those present. I suppose even the thrill of bouncing on a well-stuffed chesterfied pales eventually.

"Are you smoking?"

"What? Oh I'm sorry. Where are my manners. Care for a gasper?" I proferred my cigarette case. "Filter on the left, untipped on the right."

"Grandpapa says smoking's bad."

"Then you can tell him from me he's a silly ass."

"Grandpapa says only idiots smoke."

"Then he's a silly ass with a fat head."

Honestly, the stuff they teach children nowadays.

"Grandpapa's a psychiatrist."

"Ah."

Suddenly I saw young Oswald in a completely different light. He and I might never be close pals, but the Wooster heart went out to him. I mean to say, it was bad enough to have Bobbie Wickham as an aunt, but to have a grandfather who was a loony doctor - well! The fates had been doubly cruel.

"D'you want to play hide and seek?"

"Hide and seek?"

"Yes. I hide. You close your eyes and count up to 100 and ---."

"I'm familiar with the etiquette," I interjected. "I was the Drones Club champion two years running."

"Good. Here I go. No peeking!"

I made myself comfortable in an armchair and closed my eyes. Perhaps it was the stress of the day but I must have dozed off for the next thing I knew someone was hammering on the front door.

Outside was a tall thin cove dressed all in tweed. He was grey-haired and with a trim white beard looked like Santa Claus in mufti who had overdone the lettuce and cress diet.

"Mr Wooster? Good day, sir. My name is Dr Nobbs. Roberta Wickham informs me you have my grandson."

"Oh. Ah. You'd better come in."

Not good, of course, having a looney doctor on the premises. In my experience it doesn't take long for his profession to view Bertram as a possible candidate for treatment. But one has to be civil. We stood in awkward silence until Old Nobbs kick-started the convo.

"Well, Mr Wooster, if you'll just show me Oswald we'll be on ourway."

"Oswald?"

"Yes. My grandson, Oswald." Nobb's syes narrowed suspiciously. "He is here, is he not?"

It suddenly dawned on me I had no idea where the bally kid was. Presumably he was somewhere in the flat. Unless he had widened the parameters of 'hide and seek' to include the whole of London, then it might well take sniffer dogs to track the little blighter down.

"Oh. Ah. Of course. Of course." I attempted a carefree laugh which came out sounding like a death rattle. "He's somewhere about, I dare say. I just can't put finger on precisely where."

"Mr Wooster, you're surely not saying you've lost an 8 year old child?"

"No, no. Lost is a bit strong. Bit over the top, what? Mislaid is probably the_ mot _j_uste."_

"Mislaid? Good lord, man!"

We both agreed the best course of action was to search the flat. Nobbs searched high; Bertram searched low. Nobbs searched low; Bertram searched high. No sign of Oswald. I was about to suggest this was a case for Hercule Poirot or Lord Peter Wimsey, when we heard a muffled cry from the hall.

"Hey! Help! Help! Let me out!"

On investigating, the noise came from a closet where Jeeves stores the wet weather gear, oilskins, umbrellas, ecettera. Old Nobbs sprung the lock and out popped Oswald. I could tell at once what had happened. Oswald had sneaked into the closet to hide but found with the door closed there was no way of opening it from the inside. I was about to share my theory to a wider audience when Oswald piped up.

"Grandpa! Grandpa! The nasty man locked me in the cupboard!"

"He did what?"

For a moment I was so shaken by this foul slander that I couldn't speak. Oswald the snitch filled the void.

"And he tried to make me smoke a cigarette."

"Mr Wooster!"

"And he called you a silly ass," Oswald continued with relish. "A silly ass with a fat head."

"Is this true, Wooster?"

"Oh. Ah. Yes. No. Up to a point. You see, what happ---"

But old Nobbs wasn't listening. He chivvied Oswald out the door.

"Go and wait in the car, Oswald. I need to speak with Mr Wooster alone."

Oswald went but not before directing a smirk at Bertram. It was a smirk that said 'you're for the high jump now, matey, make no mistake.' And I couldn't help but think that smirk had it spot on.

With the door shut old Nobbs regarded me with a piercing stare. It could have opened an oyster at 20 paces. Whereas before I had been in the company of Nobbs the _grandfamilias_, now I was in the presence of Nobbs the eminent looney doctor.

"So!"

Now I'm never quite sure how to respond when someone says So! to my face. It's a bit of a dead rubber of a word. No soul. Doesn't lend itself as a conversational gambit. It lands on the eardrums like a wet fish slapping on a fishmongers slab. Anyway, for the next 10 minutes Nobbs offered a professional critique of the Wooster character. The word 'feckless' came up a good bit. As did 'vapid', 'parasite', 'wastral' and 'moral turpitude', a zinger I hadn't come across before. It was a virtuoso performance and if I hadn't been on the sharp end I would have applauded his eloquence. Having stripped Bertram down to his constituent parts, so to speak, Nobbs concluded - "and you have not heard the last of this, sir. Not by a long chalk," before biffing off and leaving me a shadow of my former self.

The next morning I found out old Nobbs had been true to his word. A letter arrived inviting Bertram to an interview with Nobbs and his looney doctor chums to 'assess and evaluate certain behavourial problems and issues pertaining to.' But I could read between the lines. It was nothing less than appointment to be measured for a jacket, gentlemans size, strait, regular fit, in white linen with matching straps. I did the only thing poss. I rang Jeeves and told him to return immediately, if not sooner.

Jeeves rolled up later that evening. I could tell from his haughty demeanour the man was not best pleased to have his holiday and pursuit of all things piscine curtailed so abruptly. I lost no time in bringing him up to speed on the salient events of the past few days.

"Most egregious,sir" Jeeves announced solemnly. "If I might say, Miss Wickham, while in many respects admirable, is inclined to be somewhat rash and impulsive."

"She's landed me in it this time, Jeeves. Only you stand between Bertram and a padded cell."

"It is kind of to say so, Sir. I think the first course of action should be to invite Dr NObbs to a private_ tete-te-tete."_

"You want me to nobb-nobb with Old Hobbs! Er, rather, hob-nob with old Nobbs?"

"Yes, sir. It is vital you correct his original prejudice."

"But he's a looney doctor!"

"Dr Nobbs would not be here in his professional capacity, sir. It would merely be two gentlemen discussing their differences over a glass of sherry."

"If you think it will work, Jeeves, very well. But I can't say I find the prospect of a Wooster-Nobbs _detente_ particularly cheering."

"Also, sir, you should hold a simultaneous childrens party here at the flat."

"What!"

I goggled at the man. Perhaps the Lake District air had addled his mighty brain.

"By staging a successful childrens party you will demonstrate to Dr Nobbs, sir, that you are child-friendly, so to speak, and juveniles are more than safe in your care."

"Dash it, couldn't I just bribe the fellow, Jeeves? How does 20 thousand in a plain manila envelope sound?"

"Bribing a man of Dr Nobb's professional standing would quite probably result in a lengthy prison term, sir. I do not advocate it."

I sighed. Bertram seemed to be caught between a rock and a hard place. It was dashed uncomfortable.

"Very well, Jeeves. Proceed."

Jeeves handled the logistical side, the invitations, supplies, and so forth. My role was to brood on the Hand of Fate and the sheer iniquity of it all. The kids binge was slated to kick off at 3. The plan was for old Nobbs to roll up at 3.30 and find the party in full swing and Bertram the life and soul thereof.

Jeeves had recruited 10 kids, all about 8 years of age. They were mostly the nephews of chaps I knew from the Drones. Tuppy Glossop's nephew Hamish was there. As was Bingo Little's cousin Tarquin. The bash started well enough - Jeeves twisting balloons to make balloon animals, a talent I had hitherto not suspected. The children were just sitting down to tea when Nobbs dropped anchor at 3.30. He didn't seem particularly bucked to see Bertram again. The feeling was mutual.

"Mr Wooster. I must say I was surprised---What's going on here?"

"Oh. Ah."

Now the game was afoot, so to speak, I found I had come down with a case of stage fright. I shuffled from foot to foot like a cat on hot coals. Jeeves came to the young master's rescue.

"Mr Wooster is hosting a childrens party, sir."

"And who might you be?"

"I am Mr Wooster's personal gentleman, sir."

"I see. Well, this is most---Good lord! Is that child smoking?"

I looked round. One of the little monsters had discovered my cigar humidor and had lit up an Havana. He must have been a novice because he promptly turned green and was sick on the carpet.

"Under my very nose! The gall, sir! The unmitigated gall! I shall have you committed before sunset, sir. You can rest assured."

"Oh I say, dash it!"

I turned to Jeeves for support. But Jeeves was at the table bending to whisper something in young Hamish Glossop's ear. Whatever it was it went over bigtime. Hamish looked daggers at the kid seated opposite, picked up a cream cake and hurled it. Bullseye. The kid opposite didn't take long to retaliate. A chocolate eclair made the return journey hitting young Hamish full in the fizzog. Without warning this personal dispute escalated into an all-out food-fight.

I was a veteran of many a food-fight at the Drones and I knew the procedure. Get low and stay low. Stick the noggin above the parapet and you were asking for trouble. It was here old Nobbs made his tactical error. As the figure of authority, he obviously felt it was his duty to step in and call a halt.

"Here! I say, stop it at once! You children can't--"

But they could and they did. A treacle tart hit Nobbs on the chin. Followed by a macaroon to the ribs and an apple pie to the back of the head. A volley of jelly babies hit him amidships.

Nobbs staggered but kept his footing. A salvo of strawberry gateau struck him in the seat of his trousers and he slipped on an errant cheese straw and was dowm. But the floor offered no respite. One kid hopped forward and emptied a vat of custard over Nobb's head. A ginger-haired kid stuck a lemon cheesecake up his waistcoat. Sherbut dabs rained down. A cascade of apple strudel. I saw it was down to Bertram to save Nobbs before he was overwhelmed by confectionary.

Keeping low, I zig-zagged toward the stricken Nobbs. The kids spotted me and unleashed a volley of currant buns. I ducked and they passed safely overhead. Some buttered scones strafed my left leg but I managed to stay upright. I grabbed Nobbs' collar and dragged him out of the line of fire. Despite a fulislade of jelly and custard, I pulled Nobbs into the shelter of a broom closet and shut the door.

In the twilight of the closet I took stock. Nobbs was so covered in goo he was scarcely human. A felt a pang of pity for poor chap. I imagine his Things To Do Today list read something like:

1) Wake

2) Bathe

3) Feed cats

4) Breakfast

5) Read papers

6) Potter in the garden

7) Drive to Wooster residence

followed by

8) Pelted by cakes and sundry confectionaries

9) Cower in broom closet

See how 8) and 9) in particular strike a jarring note in the itinerary. A spanner in the works of Life's Rich Pageant. Nobbs was like a Russian aristocrat waking one morning in the Winter Palace, heart set on chivyying the local peasantry, only to find the Revolution in full swing and angry Bolsheviks intent on lopping your head off at the roots. I attempted a little TLC.

"I say, are you alright?"

"Eh? Eh? Eh?"

I tried again.

"Are you okay?"

"What? What? What?"

Hardly sparkling repartee, but I pressed on.

"Children a bit frisky, what?"

"Children! Those weren't children, they were fiends from the bowels of Hell! Did you see that ginger-haired blighter? He quite deliberately stuck a raspberry cheesecake up my waistcoat!"

It was a lemon cheesecake, but I let it slide. I could see Nobbs was much moved by his experience.

"When that Banoffee pie hit me I thought I was a goner.You saved me, Mr Wooster."

"Call me Bertie."

"Thank you, Bertie. I'm Norbert. You showed great personal courage in the face of superior firepower. I salute you."

"Oh it was nothing. Compared to some nights at the Drones this was a mere skirmish."

"Were you hit, Bertie?"

"I caught a little shrapnell from an exploding Victoria sponge, but other than that I'm unscathed."

"That's good news, Bertie."

"Thanks, Norbert."

We went on like this for a good 10 minutes. Norbert waxed lyrical about the State of Civilization - viz. children's upbringing. He seemed to blame the schools.

"More corporal punishment is needed, Bertie. We must not Spare the Child. A judicious use of the birch. Especially to the likes of that ginger-haired blister."

I listened at the door.

"I think the blitzkrieg might be over."

I opened the door a crack and stepped out. Nobbs clutched my arm.

"Do be careful, Bertie. Those Eccles cakes are hard as rocks."

I ventured forth. The dining room was deserted. I searched further afield and discovered the children in the drawing room. They were sitting cross-legged, quiet as lambs, while Jeeves read to them.

"Jeeves!" I hissed, and the man came over.

"Sir?"

"Jeeves, what are you doing?"

"Reading to the children, sir. _'The Wind in the Willows'_. By Kenneth Grahame."

I reported back to Nobbs.

"Good lord! Reading to them, you say? Your man must have the courage of a lion tamer. Still, while they're occupied might be a good time to leave. Point me toward the door, Bertie, there's a good chap; I have custard in my eye."

"You can't go out in public looking like that", I said. It was true. Nobbs looked like he was wearing a blancmonge. "I'll lend you one of my suits."

"Would you, Bertie? That's frightfully kind of you."

When Nobbs had donned one of my tweed numbers, we reconvened at the front door. I decided to broach a sensitive subject.

"Listen, Norbert, about Oswald, your grandson--"

Nobbs held up a hand.

"Not another word, Bertie. I can see now by locking Oswald in the cupboard you were merely taking wise precautions. There was no telling what carnage that young hellhound might have unleashed but for your pre-emptive strike. I commend your actions."

"So you're not going to book me a non-refundable ticket to a loony bin?"

"My dear chap! That's the furthest thing on my mind."

"Right. Well, toodle-pip, Norbert."

"Goodbye, Bertie. Thanks again for the suit."

Considerably braced, I went for a change of clothes myself. The old trews had sustained some collateral damage from flying cake. While I did so the party wound down to its conclusion. The kids parents arrived to collect them and the little angels trooped off looking as if butter wouldn't melt in their mouths. I found Jeeves amid the ruins of the dining room.

"Well, Jeeves, quite a pavlova - er, I mean, quite a palaver."

"Yes, sir."

"What I can't understand is how the whole thing started."

""I may be able to shed some light there, sir. I happened to mention to Master Hamish Master Thomas said he had a face like a halibut. Master Hamish took umbrage and desired swift retribution."

"You, Jeeves!" I gasped. "You started the whole ghastly fracas?"

"Indeed, sir. I felt the most efficacious solution to your misunderstanding with Dr Nobbs was if the two of you were to undergo a trying experience. A shared trauma often brings two dispirate individuals closer together.A strong bond in the face of adversity usually ensues"

"Well. it did that alright, Jeeves. Old Norbert and I are practically bosom buds. I'm not saying we'll be dancing the light fandango under the moonlight together but it's a close run thing. And, Bertram's name is no longer on his list of 'Loonies At Large'.

"I am glad to be of service, sir."

"But, Jeeves, what of the old homestead? The place looks like a cakeshop after a bomb explosion."

"A colourful but apt simile, sir."

"We can't live here. Hansel and Gretel might manage it, given their notorious sweet-tooth, but not Bertram."

"Might I recommend a short holiday, sir. While the painters and decorators repair the damage."

"A short holiday where, Jeeves?"

"The Lake District is pleasant this time of year, sir. I have reserved lodgings."

"Very good, Jeeves. The Lake District it is. You deserve it."

"Thank you, sir. If you'll wait one moment I'll fetch my rod and reel."

**THE END**

**AUTHORS NOTE**

**This is the third of my contemporary Jeeves & Wooster stories. Hope you enjoyed it enough to check out 'Jeeves and the Gangsta Rap' and 'Jeeves and Cheating Gutbucket'.**

**pj **


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